It was a quiet night, like so many others in the life of the famous scientist, innovator and acclaimed Dr. Elhmbrett. The evening passed peacefully inside his apartment, which had become his habitual refuge over the past few months. Why? Simple and monumental at once: his latest invention…
…the "Compound C," as he called it, shimmered under the laboratory's ultraviolet light, dancing in its vial like a liquid made of fractured stars. One of his most enigmatic and transcendent creations. Classified as a biomodifier, this compound offered a decisive resource capable of turning the tide of war in favor of the Army of Consciousness. At last, they would seize the initiative in the conflict.
Dr. Elhmbrett's confidence—shaped by years of research and now fueled by this breakthrough—seemed well founded. Compound C granted its user a power as incomprehensible as it was unsettling. Though its long-term side effects remained uncertain, Elhmbrett had no doubt: this was his greatest achievement.
Unlike others who might have flaunted such a discovery with arrogance, Elhmbrett remained true to his humble principles. Born in District 36, Sector B-8, bearing the registration #074/æ³|π|, he'd known from first consciousness that he was different. Different not only because of his precocious intellect, but also due to an acute—almost painful—awareness of the mind's fragility.
District 36, a typical middle‐class enclave, sheltered hundreds of thousands of people: a place where luxury was scarce but the essentials never failed. He grew up in a "normal" family: a father stern yet fair, and a beautiful, affectionate mother who indulged his whims despite her husband's constant warnings.
On paper, his childhood was filled with love. In reality, Elhmbrett never felt it. Perhaps that's why, when he turned eight, they gave him a dog. His first true "friend," since relating to other children had always eluded him—not from a lack of social skill, but because he simply found no meaning in it.
That disconnection led to frequent conflicts, and he was soon labeled problematic. Even—so they said—asocial. District 36 didn't smell of poverty, but of sterilized mediocrity. At eight years old, Elhmbrett already knew it. While other kids played with holographic drones, he dissected cockroaches to study their nervous systems.
His only ally was Myshoo, that faithful friend with a brown patch over his left eye that gave him the look of a sad pirate.
"They don't understand," he'd whisper to the animal as it licked the solder on a circuit that would never work.
"We are… anomalies."
The years passed. With his curiosity grew his complexity…and his indifference. The increasingly sterile environment offered him little. The social cage grew ever more hostile.
At twelve, a silent turning point occurred. After school, a group of kids ambushed him. Why? As absurd as it was predictable: he was "different" or, as they mockingly called him, a "know-it-all." They beat him—not for any deed he'd done, but for the discomfort his mere existence provoked.
Elhmbrett felt neither rage nor fear. He went home in silence. His mother—ever the overprotective type—tended to him as if he were bleeding out. To him, it was all far too much. He slipped away, showered, sat at his desk…and thought.
Hours later, with the cold precision of one dissecting a corpse, he wrote in his journal:
"They will live. Not because there is benevolence in me, but because a man, if he must respond, must first ensure that the instigator does not develop, thereafter, the capacity to react. And they, quite simply, do not merit such effort."
The next day he returned to school as if nothing had happened. He sat there, utterly indifferent. That iciness earned him admiration—especially from someone named Shiefiee.
Shiefiee was intrigued by her classmate's complexity. He was unlike anyone she'd ever met. To her, Elhmbrett wasn't a child but someone mature and opaque. Raised by a cold mother who blamed her—albeit unspokenly—for her parents' failed marriage, and an absent father, Shiefiee grew up craving attention and masculine affection.
As a child, she'd felt an innocent attraction to her teacher—an impulse she'd suppressed, leaving behind a latent, unconscious hunger.
The next three years were an emotional whirlwind for Elhmbrett. There was a yearning, a desire… something vague. He didn't understand its source, only that everything had changed.
If anything defined that time, it was Shiefiee's constant overtures. That pesky girl—Elhmbrett never knew what new stunt she'd pull to get his attention. Yet he found her persistence oddly comforting, making him feel more like everyone else. And one day, he yielded.
He decided to give Shiefiee a chance. That afternoon, they agreed to meet at her home for study. Accompanied by Myshoo, he set off. Upon arrival, he was struck by a sudden contrast: while he lived in the balanced, stereotypical Sector B-8, Shiefiee's home in B-74 lay on the ragged edge of lower middle class.
At her door, Shiefiee greeted him with a radiant smile, beckoning him inside. In Elhmbrett's words, her home was:
"Inefficient and obsolete."
Hearing that, Shiefiee pressed at the fabric of her lower garment in a nervous tic. To Elhmbrett, the gesture was illogical—in fact impossible, since you can't pinch Vectran fiber without wrinkling it—but she never broke her smile or tried again.
At fifteen, his life changed forever. Myshoo—his only genuine emotional bond—lay weak for days. He wouldn't eat or move, growling at any touch. Then one morning, a final silence: a heartbreaking frailty.
Elhmbrett snapped. Determined to save his friend with the science he revered, he went to his desk. Pushed aside some books and revealed a secret compartment unlocked by his ring finger's fingerprint. Inside lay a black box, about the size of two palms: his greatest secret.
It was an imperfect replica of the antimatter Zyk17 military weapon. A device with a mini fusion reactor using deuterium and tritium, its core unleashing a blast of highly energetic neutrons. Those neutrons were absorbed by oridonite, an amplifier mineral that resonated with them, boosting the electromagnetic field.
Then, the accelerated particles struck crismalinazeta, an unstable mineral that inverted its quantum symmetry to generate antimatter confined by self-sustaining toroidal fields.
But the replica had a fatal flaw: it lacked the biocuantum controller found in official state armaments. Those systems, governed by AI, assessed the user's history, potential, and emotional state to calibrate shot power. Elhmbrett, without such protocols, was at the mercy of his own genius…and arrogance.
He knew his dog's heart disease obstructed blood flow. Lacking funds for proper care, he devised a home procedure: a brief antimatter pulse to clear the passage, a laser to cauterize, and artificial tissue to reconstruct.
On paper, it was flawless. He adjusted the room's UV intensity, positioned the weapon over his dog's chest…and fired.
What should have been a surgical opening became a catastrophe. Containment failed, the reactor core destabilized, and the antimatter pulse went full-blown—brutal and uncontrollable.
Myshoo's upper body disintegrated entirely. Only bloody remnants lay on the floor and a smoking crater where his best friend once lay.
Even as he heard his mother racing up the stairs, Elhmbrett remained motionless, on his knees, staring into the abyss he'd created. No tears, no screams. Just silence. His mother burst in, saw the horror, and instinctively flung herself around him, murmuring that everything would be all right.
When she reached the bathroom and saw the weapon on the floor, she picked it up—and in that instant, the volatile crismalinazeta detonated.
Stepping back, Elhmbrett surveyed the macabre scene: where one corpse should have been, there were two—one headless, the other missing its entire upper torso.
He didn't know why, but he ran. The Reindication Agency was activating. The AI had detected the spacetime rupture caused by the antimatter discharge. Result: high-priority target, advanced attack measures.
As they closed in, having flagged his ID as erased from the database, Elhmbrett ran as if the world would end tomorrow. Snot mingled with sweat and tears on his face; he looked every bit the wretched fifteen-year-old he was.
He pressed on through the city's towering structures and muted tones splashed with neon holograms. The minimalist architecture felt eerily menacing today. Pushing aside anything in his path, he heard the hum of electromagnetic fields propelling the Reindication hovercraft—though he didn't know what it was, the weapons trained on him needed no translation.
He didn't need his intelligence to know they were after him.
Then came the voice:
—Target confirmed, high-threat level, code #074/æ³|π|. Requesting annihilation authorization.
—Received. Denied. Priority: neutralization.
Everything went dark.
When he came to, he was in a cubicle of pure white, soundproofed. His human limits became painfully clear: his ears sharpened so acutely that the internal sounds of his own body tormented him.
The cell—white even to the clothes binding him from head to toe—was barely large enough to stand, impossible to sit or lie down. An eternal, blistering light, as white as the sun, illuminated the space—a favorite interrogation chamber for those who took pleasure in psychological torture.
—Internee #074/æ³|π|, given name Elhmbrett. You know why you're here.
Though younger than the usual subjects, he was no anomaly. A high-profile case accustomed to premeditation.
"We have your journal and your words:
'They will live…'"
"I can infer your nature. You've harbored homicidal intent for years. I don't know how you skirted the criminal-coefficient system so long, but the game's over. Incredible: so young, attractive, intelligent…and throwing your life away."
—Before proceeding, answer yes or no, unless instructed otherwise.
—…
—Forty-eight hours ago, on 22/03/3945, did you commit premeditated homicide against citizen Enhra Drehull Rose, code #073/æ²|π|?
—It was an accident! I didn't mean to…
Before Elhmbrett could reply, an electronic pulse—channeled through the cell's magnetic field—pierced his body.
—Answer yes or no.
—…
—For that crime, did you use a prototype advanced military weapon, Zyk17?
—Yes.
—Not registered in any database, yet owned by you?
—Yes.
—Fascinating. How does a fifteen-year-old acquire such military tech? Permission to speak.
—I designed it myself.
—Remarkable, but not unheard of for your profile. I wouldn't be surprised if you built a black hole in your garage. So, where did the components and funding come from? Were you part of an organization, organized crime, or rebel armies?
—I got it online.
—"Online"? HaHaHaHaHaHaHa! Sure, and I sell corpses in web stores. Last chance: where do these privileges come from?
—I got it online.
Silence.
—Stubborn, eh? You'll learn why no one lasts here. Welcome to the Federal Reindication HQ—handling crime, cybercrime, modified humans, cyborgs… Tough types come through here, but they all end up crying. Maybe a stint here will sober you up.
Time lost meaning. The stark white blinded him; the silence stretched every second into torture—hours, days, perhaps months.
Just before breaking, the same voice returned:
—Good, good, good! How's our rising star? You've got a visitor—someone's been waiting all night.
The left wall turned transparent. A figure stood there, clad in a wide-brimmed hat and trenchcoat.
—Elhmbrett, be silent and listen. You don't know me, but I know you perfectly. I've been helping you from the shadows—from the moment you thought you could buy cyber-military components online, you've been careless. If we hadn't constantly wiped your trail…you'd be dead.
—Who…are you?
—A miscalculation, Elhmbrett. One that…just saved your life. Your sentence is final; the AI ruled you unfit for reintegration. In 96 hours, you die. The case is sealed; we can't interfere as we once did. Your record now includes first and second-degree homicide, unauthorized weapons possession, antimatter use, terrorism, and public disorder. No easy way out.
—What do you want from me?
—You can guess: you're an anomaly, Elhmbrett. Not just for your IQ of 310—you're an anomaly because the AI can't map your psyche or predict your actions. We need—you—I need minds like yours.
—What could you want from me? he whispered. "I'm a failure; empirically so. My duty to life is done."
In a flash, he saw his father's face. No friends, no one cared for his loss. Myshoo, his only confidant, was dead—because of him. And his mother, once so loving, was gone.
He thought:
"Humans are profoundly vulnerable—not just physically but at the core. Despite all precautions, why do I feel so miserable?"
—I expect more from you than words can express, the voice cut in. Failure is human; to rectify is godlike. Your duty to life has ended, but your debt to the world stands…your debt to humanity remains unpaid.
—If life holds no purpose for you, live for my cause. Don't question—just think.
Silence. The cell flooded with blue light.